I had one of those moments where I doubted myself as a writer today.
No, it wasn’t insecurity, it was a question of calling. I was on my way home from the store today with a half tonne of groceries whose future included a mango salsa and guacamole. Yes, I know it’s December Eve and mangoes and avocados aren’t to be had without a price. Still, I make these things well, and seeing as we’re having a small army into our small apartment (I keep thinking it’s around 60 people but it’s probably closer to 25 or so) it fell to me to provide some of the edible entertainment. It’s the least I can do since I’ll have the girls out and about with me while Suze plays hostess.
It’s a long story. The parents of sixth graders are pulling together a support group to help us all get through the tween years, and perhaps beyond. The meeting places rotate and Suze volunteered when someone else fell through. Better to get our turn out of the way up front, I guess.
Fortunately others are bringing other food and drink because having to actually feed a large crowd a week after Thanksgiving seemed a bit daunting. But at Thanksgiving I was asked to make stuffing for a platoon of a family gathering, followed up the next night with a double-family sized portion of what is becoming my famed macaroni and five cheese.
It was while riding my bike home in the near-freeze that my brain actually tripped and wondered if I hadn’t missed my calling in a kitchen. Do I have a talent for it or just an affinity? I do enjoy food, and there’s something meditative about the process (when I have time), and I like hunting down the slightly unusual recipe. And because I’m a guy that makes me slightly unusual. And it makes me wonder if I should have considered a different path instead of writing.
And then I start in the kitchen and I think “I can do this on small scale, and on a larger scale every once in a while, but not every day; writing I could do every day.”